Gemotions

The small, leather-bound journal was heavier than it looked. Maria sat on the park bench, the autumn leaves swirling around her feet. The list, penned in her aunt’s delicate script, felt like a secret weapon, or maybe a curse.

*Travel through Tuscany.* Maria’s breath caught. She’d always imagined her aunt content in her own garden, not dreaming of exotic locales. Her heart beat with a strange, uneven rhythm.

*Write a poem.* She closed her eyes, trying to picture it. The idea seemed impossible, a fairy tale. Her head swam.

*Find love again.* She flinched, as if slapped. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves, and the park felt suddenly cold.